


Selling Your Soul to the Devil is Overrated

by farmgirl



Series: Bonds [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ace Lives, Adventure, Aziraphale being a badass in his own way, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Betaed, Complete, Let Aziraphale Drive the Bentley 2020, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), coming to terms with feelings, corrupt politician, headcanons on smiting, the Bentley is sentient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22197493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farmgirl/pseuds/farmgirl
Summary: Aziraphale can sense when Crowley is in trouble too.  Also, the Bentley is semi sentient, and definitely ok with Aziraphale driving, so long as he asks nicely.  Various appearances by a corrupt politician, Hastur, celestial sigils used (incorrectly) as a holding circle, and an angel coming to terms with the feelings he’s been struggling with since 1941.Semi-sequel to The Importance of Blood Feathers When Molting, reading of the previous fic not required.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Bonds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762834
Comments: 4
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of sequel to The Importance of Blood Feathers When Molting, in the sense that it answers the question, "Does Aziraphale have a trouble sense for Crowley?" But you don't have to read that if you don't want to. To the curious, this takes place a few weeks later.
> 
> I now have a beta reader! Please thank LawrVert for kindly helping me squash grammar bugs, clear fluidity, and fix the explanation with the wards at the end of the story!  
> My beta reader's profile can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrVert/profile)

“So, you’re sure of this?” The speaker’s voice implied an expensive education and a posh life.

“Completely, sir. I met him myself." The second speaker wheezed slightly. 

“I've seen the pictures your people took," the second voice continued. "I admit sometimes the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I'd bet my pension, what little it's worth, on him being the same man. He wasn't the sort of fellow you forget. Also, I've done some checking of my own. No records of him, no pictures, no nothing. But I have my own records, sort of souvenirs for the grandkids I thought, after the time came for it to all be declassified, you know? It's him." 

“How can I be sure he’s what you say he is though? Plenty of other explanations exist after all.” The first speaker was clearly skeptical.

“I know for a fact he bombed a church. Never made sense that bomb falling there. And he was there, heard about something going down and just...walked out of a meeting. The church was bombed that same night. Took out a Nazi spy ring, so who was going to ask questions in those days? No one, that's who." 

“Hmm, I will pay you for the information...for now.” There was a creaking of leather as the man settled back in his chair. “If, and only if Mr. Anthony J. Crowley turns out to be what we hope, will I pay you the full amount.” 

“I have something else you might like, sir!” The weezing voice sounded eager now, thin and wavy with a desire to please. “These here, they were found by the research department back in the day. We were all a little leery of old Hitler’s obsession with the occult. No one knew if he was going to start using some of the stuff he got his hands on, not all fake you know. It's just extremely rare that anyone does it right or has the real thing. But these were found by someone and they're the real thing they said. Might turn out useful, if he is what I'm saying, you know?"

A file slid across the table. A well-groomed hand that had never seen an honest day's work in its life accepted it. The sound of flipping pages seemed louder than normal in the small room.

“Hmm, yes, these could indeed prove useful. I’ve been seeking a holding circle that actually functioned, if this proves to be such, I will happily pay you an extra 10000 on top of the reward.”

“How long before you’ll know? I need the money soon, or it will do me no good.” There was a pause, and the sound of an oxygen tank being activated for a moment. 

“Rest assured, I will be attending to this matter with some urgency. I should know if I can pay you within the week.” 

“Thank you, sir."

* * *

Aziraphale was deep in a copy of Jane Eyre and getting rather tingly over Bronte's descriptions of a scene with a torn wedding veil and a possible ghost. That was probably why he missed the sensation when it first materialized. It was a strange feeling, like entering one’s room and knowing immediately that someone else has been there. You can’t explain how you know, you just do.

Some instinct seemed to be at work telling the angel something was not quite right somewhere. Unfortunately, being deep in a Gothic horror novel made the sensation feel at first feel like it was merely part of the story. Only when Aziraphale finally pulled himself away long enough to go on a search for tea or cocoa, did he notice it. 

_Odd,_ he noted to himself, _have I forgotten something?_ Surely not. Crowley was out of town at the moment, off doing some small petty temptations he hadn’t entirely given up after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. Old habits die hard and all that. An invitation to dinner was hardly possible. The shop was closed and locked, the sign properly turned round. The blinds were down. What was the matter-? 

A jolt of something, that could only be described as _wrongwrongwrong_ , hit him out of nowhere. Only then did it dawn on Aziraphale as he remembered a conversation from a month ago, about “trouble senses”.

“ _I call them that. Sometimes. Also call them Angel is in over his head again senses. That one certainly fits well enough.”_

Aziraphale's eyes widened as it dawned on him. This was what he’d been talking about! This must be what his own sense of trouble felt like. So he did have one! And, oh dear, that meant...How was he supposed to find Cowley though? “There must be a way,” he muttered. “Goodness knows he always finds me just fine. Even when I was in another country. How does one do that?” the angel contemplated. Well, if it worked like most spiritual being’s senses did, it was probably more about focusing and listening. 

The angel closed his eyes and tried to think only about the strange sense of something off within him. It seemed to radiate from the northeast. Not far, not nearly far enough to be out of the country(how he knew it was not that far he could not have explained. Not to a mortal at least. It was one of those things that only spiritual beings can understand, an instinct humans rarely if ever cultivate. The only person who might have understood him was Anathema Device, an occultist whose own instinct of that nature was more attuned than most mortals.

Aziraphale began frantically digging for maps of different parts of England. Unrolling a few, he found an area to the east of Cambridge that seemed to call to him. He’d been there before, a century or two ago. He hoped the area hadn't changed too much. Miracling oneself to an area was a complicated process. And it tended to be downright impossible if one didn’t know the area at all. It was a rather large miracle. He just hoped Heaven wasn’t still monitoring his miracles, or he would surely be in trouble for this one. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and snapped his fingers, praying he got it right. He opened his eyes in some sort of central square, surrounded by small shops and cafes. It looked like it would be lovely in the daylight. At this late hour, everything was dark and fairly quiet. There were a few cars out, but not many. Sitting not far away, was a rather familiar vintage black Bentley. Aziraphale eyed it, but he was still focused on the strange sense within him that told him the demon wasn’t there, though he was much closer than before. 

A moment of hesitation (followed by several moments of internal dithering),and the angel crossed the silent street to stand by the Bentley's passenger door. He was not surprised to find it open. The door had been open ever since that evening in 1967 when he had first tried it. Aziraphale sat down and prepared to have the oddest conversation of his considerably long life. And he had had his fair share of unusual conversations!

“I was wondering if I might be able to convince you to help me.”

No answer.

“You see I think your driver has finally gotten himself into a spot of trouble he can't get out of. I was hoping I might be able to get to him more easily and get home afterward if you would be so kind as to allow me to drive you for a bit."

_So help me, Crowley, if you exaggerated about this car being sentient on some level, I will have words with you!_

The angel slid out, walked around, and found the driver's side door open. Encouraged, he slid into the Bentley's driver's seat for the first time in his existence. Even when they'd switched corporations, he'd avoided actually driving the car. As he sat down, he addressed the Bentley once more. "So, would you please, that is if you don't mind?" The Bentley roared to life. "Oh, Thank You!” He exclaimed as they drove off into the night.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a nearby manor house, Crowley wondered how the hell-heaven he got himself into these things. He was just minding his own business when some hired muscles in suits had snagged him. They had done a damn good job of it too. He could usually wiggle his way out of these sorts of things, but everything had been fast, disorienting, and efficient. Before he knew it, the demon was shoved into a binding circle. One that actually functioned, an impressive feat. Plenty of books with binding rituals had been written, and 99.9% of them were absolute rubbish. Finding a functioning binding circle was the equivalent of finding a functioning summoning ritual, as rare as pigs flying.

His mood had not been improved by the appearance of some annoying politician and a co-worker from some 70-odd years ago. Honestly, Crowley would never understand where humans got the idea to sell their souls for power (much less why they would want to trust Hell’s legal department to pay up), but he would happily curse the demon responsible with something particularly diabolical if he got the chance. Maybe perpetual lice? Or sand gnats.

Currently, Crowley was alternating between fuming, and worrying about the draining feeling he was getting from this rather odd circle. Seriously, he'd seen just about every language ever written through the course of human history, but he couldn't place this one. Not to say he didn't know it at all, there was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t place it for the “life” of him. It seemed his problems were endless tonight. 

He studied the room, noting the older architecture and the money spent on keeping it looking fresh. Someone was flush, you couldn't keep a place this age up to date without a large inflow. He would know. He'd searched for renovation ideas one of the rare times Aziraphale did anything with the tiny flat above the bookshop.

It was mostly some kind of extra book storage since the angel rarely slept, especially in a bed. If Aziraphale slept, it was more likely in the chair by his desk in the backroom or, occasionally, on the old sofa.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, Crowley remembered that the angel had wanted a larger bathtub, but they'd failed to figure out where they would put it. The demon had meant to introduce his angel to his bathroom someday, but had never succeeded in getting the angel to stay overnight. Not counting the night after the world did not end, neither of them had slept that night. Much less had time for bathing. Still, he'd put a lot of effort into that bathroom, he would love to see the angel’s reaction just once. 

There was a sudden commotion outside the large art gallery the demon was trapped in. Two of the goons in suits slammed the doors open while another two dragged in a struggling figure in a cream suit…

“I say, do let me go, this jacket is over a hundred years old and if you pull a single thread out of it, I shall be most put out!”

_Oh heaven, how did he get here?!_

“Shut up you pansy, and stay put.”

The goons dropped him and headed off muttering, clearly intending to tell their boss about his second visitor. 

The angel murmured something that sounded rather like, “Rude.” Then his eyes fell on the demon in the circle.

“Crowley! There you are!” Aziraphale drew closer to the demon who was still trying to determine if the circle was now making him hallucinate. “I was looking for you when those unpleasant fellows interrupted me.”

“What are you doing here, Angel? I thought you were buried in your bookshop for the next two weeks?”

“Ahh, I was, but then something brought me here. It seems I finally found a reason to use those trouble senses we were discussing a few weeks ago. They led me here. But what in heaven’s name happened to you? Is that a real binding circle?"

“Real enough," Crowley growled, "Don't know if that's what they intended it for originally. Runes seem to be a bit of an overkill. They weaken as well as trap. Some rich bastard in politics who wants to get farther thought he would use the old "sell your soul for power" ploy. Spent enough money to know what he was doing. He was actually looking for the devil, but take what you can get I suppose.”

“How did he know what you were though?” worried the angel.

“He’s found an old coworker of mine from MI6. Guess Louis needed the money now that no one higher up cares if he squeals or not.”

“MI6.” Aziraphale stared at the demon in surprise. “When did you ever work for them?”

"World War II, Angel. How do you think I knew about the Nazi spying murdering people around London?”

“I assumed you were guessing.”

“Not that night Angel, I saw some surveillance photos at a meeting and knew you would be in trouble soon, so I just hightailed it over.”

Aziraphale was studying the circle Crowley was standing in. “So who is Louis?”

“Old coworker. Thought he’d retired, but I guess they shafted him on the severance package. He’s old enough now they don’t care who he talks to, so I guess he saw an easy deal and took it.”

“How would he know though? I mean, we both fooled Shadwell for years-”

Shadwell’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, Angel.” Though how swindled Crowley had felt about that did not bear thinking about. "I thought I took the evidence out with me when I left at the end of the war. Apparently, Louis had his own illegal backups, the clever bastard. He kept them hidden long enough no one would be looking now. But he sold out fast enough when the money was good."

“He sounds dreadful," Aziraphale commented idly, still distracted by the runes on the ground.

Crowley noticed his interest. “Oi, what are those anyways. I've been studying them for a while and they look familiar, but I can't place them."

“Probably because they're rather obscure. They look awfully familiar to me as well, but not just the language. I swear I've seen this configuration, but not for a binding circle."

“Mmm, probably found it in a moldering book you would love.” 

Something was bothering the demon about this, how exactly had Aziraphale gotten so close to him so easily? They were a bit out in the countryside here. "Where did you come from anyway?"

“Some little village near Cambridge. I presume that’s where you were when they nabbed you.”

“I was actually, but how did you get here from there. I don’t want the archangels showing up to fuss about your miracle quota again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed the angel, “We showed them how pointless it is to bother us. They’ve probably written me off as a loss at this point. And I only miracled my way to the village, I drove the rest of the way.”

Alarm bells were starting to go off in Crowley’s mind. “Drove. As in a car?”

“Yes, what else would I drive these days? I may not be all up to date with mobile phones and computers and the inter-webs, but I do know that the only thing one drives these days is a car or some such vehicle."

The alarm bells in Crowley’s mind were now growing into sirens. “Which car, Angel? That is unless you’ve sunk to the level of stealing-or risen depending on who you’re asking.”

Aziraphale gasped. " I would never! I drove the Bentley of course. You left it there so I thought I'd bring it back to you for one thing"

“You drove my car?” Dear Somebody, did Aziraphale even know how to drive? The angel surely hadn’t driven in decades. For that matter-”How did you drive it without the keys?”

“I asked of course,” was the illuminating response. “You’ve told me that car could think on its own for years now. I just put your theory to the test is all-”Aziraphale was rudely cut off by a frantic demon.

“Where issss it?” Crowley was shifting nervously, wishing he could check on it himself.

“It’s perfectly fine. It’s outside, well away from this place. I wasn’t foolish enough to put it in danger, calm down.” Aziraphale was rather miffed at Crowley’s lack of confidence. “Honestly, it was probably safer being driven by me than the poor thing’s ever been. You practically crash it at least fifteen times between the bookshop and the Ritz every week in London.”

“You asked. Of course, you asked, bloody everything else does what you ask, why not the Bentley?" muttered the still irate demon.

It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t trust Aziraphale, far from it. It was more that the angel was, as usual, oblivious to the implications, which was rather fortunate in this case. The Bentley was not supposed to let anyone else drive it. Why it let the angel, his angel drive, would have been clear to most inhabitants of Heaven or Hell. It was certainly embarrassingly clear to Crowley. Apparently not to specific ethereal beings though, who remained blissfully ignorant of why the demon’s car let one angel drive when no one else could. 

In fact, anyone else who tried to even get into the Bentley and didn’t immediately give up upon finding the doors locked, were likely to find themselves with a desperate need to be somewhere else where some horrible and utterly miserable(but non-life threatening) emergency immediately required their attention. Letting even Aziraphale in the driver’s seat meant the Bentley was up to something. Again. Crowley almost started actually praying that the car wouldn’t play anything too embarrassing on the way home. 

Further discussion was cut off by the sudden banging open of the double doors behind them in what was obviously supposed to be an imposing display. In waltzed several goons, a man in a suit so perfectly tailored it would have impressed Gabriel himself, and an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. They formed a neat line and the man in the tailored suit spoke.

“Is this the man in the circle?”

“That’s him alright, sir.”

“Right, you may not be exactly who I was looking for, but you have connections to certain...entities I believe can give me what I want.”

Crowley rather dramatically rolled his eyes.

“You humans never seem to consider whether all that shit they feed you about demons is real do you?”

Louis had been staring at Aziraphale, who was staying quiet for the moment, unsure how to intervene yet. He smiled weakly as he noticed the old man’s attention, then froze as he felt a whisper from the man’s soul. This human was high on Death’s list, he might have a month before that particular being came calling. As that sunk in, the old man suddenly spoke up.

“Sir, I know this one in the old jacket too. He was at the church back in 1941!”

Tailored Suit turned to the wheelchair. “You’re sure it's him?”

Crowley, who had gone rigid at the identification, suddenly snarled at the former agent.

“Listen, Louis, you want that precious family of yours to not suffer for your stupidity, you keep your Bloody. Mouth. Shut. You're in enough trouble."

“Nothing you can do to me, Mr. Crowley. I have nothing left to lose,” the old man snapped back.

“He's right," muttered the angel," he certainly doesn't have long."

“Fan-fucking-tastic. He can still suffer for his actions before he goes!” Crowley narrowed his eyes at the man for a moment. _Damn, he’s bound up not down. Pity._ “Even if not after”

Tailored Suit proceeded to give a thoroughly unimpressive speech about how power was everything and only he knew what to do with it and how he would give anything to get it-the same drivel humans had been spewing since there were more than 100 of them to keep up with. Both Aziraphale and Crowley had heard it all before and didn't bother looking remotely interested.

Then the politician finally said something different. "Before starting this endeavor, I thought it would be best to first hire someone who would know what they were doing. Fortunately, I found someone who was exceedingly helpful. They said they could 'persuade' you to give me what I want."

The ground bubbled, mounded, and then Hastur formed, smirking maliciously.

Crowley groaned. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me?” 

Tailored suit interrupted. “I’ll leave you to do the job. I’m afraid all this unpleasantness is beneath me, and I have to settle with my informant here, who has also been most helpful.” The art gallery cleared quickly, leaving three spiritual beings(two occult and one ethereal) to eyeball each other.

“Weren’t expecting me to use humans, were you Crawly?” Hastur gloated. “Useful little blighters though. They took care of all the work for me. They even bagged a rogue angel.” The toad demon leered at Aziraphale, who fought the urge to back up. “I wonder how much Upstairs will pay for you, Feathers or if they’ll just let us take you Downstairs and get those pretty white wings dirty?”


	2. Chapter 2

While Crowley snarled at the other, Aziraphale’s gaze went back to the circle his friend was still trapped in. _Right, let’s see if my theory on those runes holds water_. He drew a deep breath and folded his hands into the classic prayer position before speaking.

“Crowley, do you trust me?”

“Of course, Angel, why…?”

“Then please, don’t move.” Aziraphale began speaking, not in English or any human tongue, but rather in Celestial. The runes in the “binding circle” suddenly glowed bright white, and a barrier flashed into existence. Crowley yelped at the holy power blazing from the walls around him as well as the sudden uptick in the draining effect. 

Demon friend safely protected, Aziraphale was free to begin moving out of Hastur's range. The duke was quite confident, judging by his expression as he started stalking Aziraphale.

“Run away, little angel. More fun this way.” Hastur began forming a small ball of flame in his hands.

“Let me guess, you’re the one responsible for those minor demons outside who were guarding the entrance?” Aziraphale stated accusingly.

“Liked that did you? I’d say it was a shame they weren’t capable of handling one little angel, but I think I like it better this way. More fun if I get to do it myself.”

Aziraphale ducked behind a pillar, barely avoiding it when Hastur brought it tumbling down almost on top of him. “Oh blast, what was the order?” he muttered. It had been quite a while since he’d had to smite anyone. Truthfully, he could count on two hands the number of times he’d smitten anyone in his existence. He was horribly out of practice.

Hastur grinned sickeningly as the flames ignited between his palms. He tossed the fireball experimentally back and forth a few times. This did not go unnoticed by a captive audience of one still trapped demon.

“I swear Hastur, you harm him and next time I get you on tape, I’ll dub over you with the worst Celestial Harmonies I can find,” Crowley threatened.

Neither of the two paid him any attention.

“Catch!” shouted Hastur. The ball of fire flew through the air and landed on the pile of debris from the fallen pillar. Aziraphale skittered out of the way clumsily, arms pinwheeling to keep him upright. He managed to avoid falling until he tripped over a stray bit of concrete. 

“Was it Elohim first? Too low down the list. I can't go highest, too dangerous. What was it, Jehovah Jireh or El Shaddai? Honestly, maybe I should brush up on this stuff.” The angel was still caught up in his own head. He dashed behind Crowley and his barrier. 

“Angel, for Somebody’s sake, get me out of here! Or do something fast, that stuff is spreading.” The flames from Hastur's little fireball were indeed rapidly making their way up the wall.

“Right. I suppose I’ll just guess then.”Aziraphale muttered. He stepped out and pointed straight at the duke of hell. 

“ _ **In the name of El Shaddai, I rebuke you!”**_ The command rang out in two planes of existence. There was a rather bright golden flash, a shocked look on Hastur's face, and where the duke had stood, there was only a small pile of dirt. Crowley could feel his ears ringing.

“Oh thank goodness. I don't think I got him completely, but he certainly won't be making his way back up for a while," Aziraphale stated in a relieved voice.

“Great Angel, nice job. Now would you please get the fuck out of here.” Crowley snapped. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you here.” Aziraphale began frantically searching the room. He found a stanchion in front of one of the paintings and quickly yanked off the velvet rope off that had been attached to it.

The demon was getting more agitated every moment the angel was trapped in the now rapidly burning building.

“Aziraphale, go already. You can come back when it burns out."

Aziraphale didn't respond, bringing the metal base of the stanchion down hard on the tiles with the runes carved into them. Several more strokes, and a near frantic demon later, the tile cracked. The circle and its barrier flickered a few times then died out completely.

“There we go! See, all tickety boo!” Aziraphale cheerfully stated. He was startled by Crowley lunging out of the circle and yanking him close even as dark wings burst from the demon’s back and encircled them both. Heat seemed to suddenly blaze up at his back. Rather intense heat actually, odd, the fire didn’t seem that hot.

“Oh,” commented the angel, face still pressed partly into a rather protective demon’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, Oh,” snapped said demon. “Bloody Hastur and his bloody hellfire,” Crowley snarled, as he released Aziraphale, the wave of flame dying down for the moment.

The angel stepped away, only to step closer again when the demon’s legs promptly almost went out from under him. 

“Fuck," Crowley swore as he leaned on his friend. "Whatever you did back there made the draining effect a lot worse, angel."

“I’m sorry about that. It was rather a spur of the moment thing. I didn't think about the effect of so much holy power at once, I confess,” the angel apologized as he led Crowley towards the exit.

* * *

The front doors of a rather elegant manor house burst open as a rather odd-looking pair of beings slipped away into the night. The fire burned savagely, taking everything with it. Humans could be seen panicking and seemingly trying to escape, but for some reason, they were on the opposite side of the house.

“This way, I parked it near the drive," Aziraphale said as he headed towards the large black car with a rather pale demon in tow. He deposited Crowley, who protested adamantly, into the passenger seat.

“Come on Angel, I’m fine!”

“Absolutely not, you're not driving tonight. For once, do as you're told, please. I need to make sure no one knows we were here."

Crowley sulked as the angel hurried off for a moment, before addressing the silent Bentley.

“You! What the hell do you mean, letting him drive you?! You behave yourself. Or see if you get waxed for the next month...” Something in the air changed, and there was a definite impression of puzzled sulking from the silent car.

The driver's side door opening interrupted the silent standoff. Aziraphale slid in and addressed the car.

“Shall we go now?”

The Bentley roared to life, to the demon's exasperation. Crowley banged his head against the seatback.

“You really don’t need the keys do you?”

Aziraphale looked somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry my dear. I didn’t think since I didn't use them to get here.”

“Forget it,” muttered the demon. “What was up with that circle? How did you get it to generate a powerful barrier but not deactivate it?”

“Wall wards,” was the angel’s unilluminating response.

“Wall wards,” Crowley deadpanned. “Why the fuck would they use wall wards, and how do you know that?”

“I’ve seen them before, not in a book though. They’re used in some parts of Heaven. They do technically keep things in, or out rather, seeing as they’re used for defense, especially against occult beings. By writing them so that they’re focused inwards instead of outwards a true binding circle is formed. Since they are still impenetrable like a wall, it blocks things out, or in this case, hold them in. They have to be activated to be more than a physical barrier. Only when active do they stop metaphysical attacks. That’s what I did. I didn’t have time to think of an appropriate alteration to get you out.”

While explaining, Aziraphale had managed to get them on the road and headed towards London. He also managed to annoy and amuse his demonic passenger with his driving. Aziraphale could drive, but he drove like an old man on a Sunday afternoon. _You are the most exasperating being, mortal or otherwise, Angel. I don’t get how one creature makes me want to throttle them and kiss them at the same time. Ugh, wonderful, I’m so bloody tired I’m being soppy._

“Is that why you broke the tiles, instead of doing the smart thing and leaving when the building caught fire?”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about that, my dear fellow, I didn’t mean to worry you. But since the runes were draining you faster than ever, once they were active, I was afraid the effects would be too much if I waited. Being old wall wards, they were never meant to be deactivated once active. Rather defeats the purpose. And thus the broken tiles.”

“Huh.” The demon absorbed this for a moment or two. “What was all that flaffing with the names? If you were going to smite him, why not just do it? You seemed to have more than enough punch when you did.”

Aziraphale was blushing deeply now as he pretended to find the completely empty road utterly fascinating. “I haven’t done a lot of smiting recently. Or at all to be honest. I got rid of the two minor demons guarding the side doors, but they were little more than imps. Barely need any power for them. That’s actually why I got grabbed. I wasn’t anticipating humans at that point. The problem is Hastur is a Duke of Hell, bit more, erm, oomph needed, if you will. I was trying to remember the hierarchy of the names of God, seeing as how I’m a bit fuzzy.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment. “You forgot the names of God?!”

“NO! Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not! I just don’t remember the order. When smiting there’s a list of ranks and such. I remember them all but not the rankings. I could have just gone with the same as the imps, but I needed something with more power. I suppose I could have just gone to the top, but that’s not exactly something one should do idly. Also to be completely honest, I had no idea what it would do to you, even if it was never aimed at you.”

Crowley was beginning to get the picture. “You winged it didn’t you?” he commented dryly. 

“A bit perhaps. It all turned out fine in the end. Thank you, by the way. I truly didn’t recognize the fire for what it was.”

“Forget it,” muttered the demon, starting to drift off.

“Go to sleep, I’ll wake you when we get there,” the angel assured him. 

Hours later, after getting back to London and micracling a drained demon up to his flat, Aziraphale sat on Crowley's bed while the demon slept next to him. Crowley was still weakened from the circle and Aziraphale's ever-active conscience was tormenting him with a strong sense of responsibility. Thus, he was determined to stay and keep an eye on his friend. He had miracled Jane Eyre into his hands, intending to finish it, but could not keep his mind on the story any longer. At last, the angel gave up and made himself comfortable, staring at the wall as he allowed what was bothering him to finally take shape.

Aziraphale had been so worried about Crowley tonight. Yes, it had taken 6000 years to be needed, assuming this "sense" had developed early, but still. Seeing the demon in trouble had been distressing. But more than that, seeing another demon happily intending to, at the least, discorporate Crowley was frightening. Oh yes, the angel knew what had happened to the holy water he'd given Crowley(and hadn't that been a relief, in more than one sense of the word!), but standing in the middle of it was different. It brought home how incredibly fragile their newfound peace might be.

And that bothered Aziraphale. Because for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to be stuck on Earth for eternity, without Crowley. Without the demon who would always show up to save him, who rescued him when he was simply not paying attention like an idiot. Crowley was always saving him somehow or other, always noticing the little details-a scar on one of his wings, hellfire at his back, a bag of books in a church-all silly details that meant nothing, that shouldn't be that important.

Aziraphale was a stickler for details. He might not appreciate the details of the Great Plan or the rules Heaven fussed about that were so meaningless, but he loved details. The way a line of poetry fit, the foreshadowing in novels, the intricate details in illuminated manuscripts, how a single spice elevated a dish, the subtle taste of sushi. He adored it all. And he was formulating one rather large conclusion from all the little details tonight...and before. Aziraphale remembered 1941, remembered the first time he felt love in a personal sense. There was no point in denying it any longer, at least not to himself. He no longer owed Upstairs anything, and Downstairs would do what they wanted if tonight was anything to go by.

_I love him._

He was in love with his best friend, with the wily demon who had always been there for him. Who noticed all the little details, so long as they involved Aziraphale, that mattered to the angel so much. The only question was, did Crowley feel the same? Aziraphale doubted it. Goodness knows he wasn't much, and honestly, someone like Crowley deserved far better. 

Since that night in the bombed-out church, Aziraphale had been ignoring his own heart. It had been speaking, louder and louder, since the moment in St. James when he had looked at that slip of paper. He had felt a sudden sinking in the general region of his stomach at the thought that Crowley would rather end it all, would rather leave Aziraphale behind for eternity if things went south. It felt as if his heart was whispering to him for the first time.

It spoke again in 1941, to the tune of falling bombs and a mad demon waltzing down the church aisle. It had begun to shout throughout those recent horrible 11 years and the unending nightmare that followed. By that time Aziraphale had been terrified to listen to it, fearing all that Heaven and Hell could do to Crowley and to him as well. 

And then there was no time to listen to it, too much at stake as the world ended and their former sides were out for their blood. Only recently had things seemed to settle. Maybe, just maybe there was room to listen now, assuming Crowley was interested. Was there any hope for them? The angel worried his bottom lip. Could the demon feel more than friendship for him? He hadn’t noticed anything, but that meant nothing. Being Fallen might mean that Crowley no longer radiated his love so clearly, if at all. It was hard to tell.

 _I’m going in circles,_ reflected the angel, _If (and what a large if it is) he can feel it, would he feel it for me? Would he want to, especially after all I’ve put him through?_ So many questions, but in the end Aziraphale had no answers, merely a revelation millennia in the making, and no longer ignored 70 something years after it became clear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo many thoughts. Some major notes first though.
> 
> Jane Eyre-According to Wikipedia, Jane Eyre is a Gothic novel, but as someone who read the book through MULTIPLE times as a teenager, I feel Gothic Horror/Romance is good description. If you've read it, you know the torn wedding veil scene. If you haven't, it's a well executed example of psychological horror playing off the narrator and reader's lack of knowledge of what's going on. Definitely gives one a nice set of chills.
> 
> Geography-I have not been to London, or Britain for that matter. The closest I've been is Ireland once. So I used a map and tried to be loose with my terms. Hopefully it worked.
> 
> Driving-Ok, I'm going to be stubborn here and say that by this point in history, SOMEONE had to have taught Aziraphale to drive. Not necessarily Crowley. It's the kind of thing you really don't forget easily, so yes, Aziraphale can drive but for obvious reasons he usually doesn't.
> 
> Smiting-And now the nitty gritty. As tagged this is all headcanon. For the most part when demons are cast out or smitten or whatever you want to call it in the Bible, it's with the name of Christ. I specifically thought of the book of Jude when I wrote this, where Satan and Michael are apparently having an argument over Moses body, and Michael "rebukes" Satan using the name of Christ.  
> So I thought, what if it's all about names? As a kid in a strict religious school, we had to learn the names of God in Bible class. Some of them have stuck with me through the years. The true name of God is NOT for typical use(consult a practicing Jew for more info, this ignorant author will not presume to explain)but there are lot of titles. I pulled one of the air, hopefully I don't tread on any toes! If I do, please let me know.  
> In general though, that's where I got the idea for there being a hierarchy, one that Aziraphale has loose memories of, but hasn't really kept up with thru the years...
> 
> So! We're getting much closer to that confession. If/When I write the next one in this series, I intend to actually make it a series at that point. It's probably obvious at this point I'm going for slow burn, forgive me, I can't help it. :) I figure that although Aziraphale may have REALIZED he loved Crowley in 1941, it surely started before that. So there ya go folks, more on what's going on in our favorite angel's head. And yes, Aziraphale has psychological issues from Heaven, more on that next time... 
> 
> Again, my beta reader's profile can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrVert/profile)
> 
> If you want to shout about Good Omens hit me up on [tumblr](https://ffxplayer.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Uh-oh!


End file.
